


Another Kind of Punishment

by Twisted_Mind



Series: Hermione in Authority [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Angst, Boundary-Stomping, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Explicit Language, F/F, Female Character In Command, Femslash, HP: EWE, Leather, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since Pansy learned those lessons from Hermione, but she's not done learning yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Kind of Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted Dec 26th 2012 at HP Fandom. Betaed by GhostxWriter, and edited upon re-posting here. 
> 
> Despite the fact that I totally worship the ground JKR walks on (who is obviously not me), she would be elevated to god-status if the below ever happened. Sadly, it didn't, which means that I don't own.

Pansy fought not to fidget or wring her hands and betray her nervousness, though she lost the battle when it came to nibbling her lower lip. She didn’t dare raise her eyes to meet the gaze of the others in the room—she wasn’t sure that she could handle their censure without losing her composure. And for the moment, her composure was all she had.   
  
Eventually, the Silencing Spell was lifted, and Pansy raised her eyes to meet those of the Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot. She tried to read the news from his face, but Terry Boot was a mystery to her. After another agonizing moment of silence, he spoke.   
  
“Pansy Parkinson, the Wizengamot does hereby find you guilty in two counts of misdemeanour potions trafficking. In light of your heretofore spotless record, you have been sentenced to one years’ service to the Ministry of Magic. You will present yourself to the Head of the Department of Wizarding Law at eight o’clock on Monday morning to be assigned your specific task. Do you have any questions?”   
  
Pansy subtly shook her head as relief coursed through her. “No, sir,” she replied respectfully.   
  
“Very well, then. You are free to go,” Boot dismissed her with a nod.   
  
“Thank you, sir,” she said quietly as she took her leave.   
  
As she stood in line to use the Ministry Floo, Pansy’s thoughts raced. _Okay, a year’s service isn’t bad. Oh bollocks! I forgot to ask if it was paid or unpaid service. I really hope I’m being paid,_ she began nibbling on her lip again as she quickly went over her finances. _Yes, it would really be a good thing if I were paid. Even a small stipend,_ she thought as she stepped through the swirling emerald flames.   
  


***

  
  
Early on Monday morning, Pansy agonized over dressing for the first day of her Ministry-mandated service. She was grateful that she had professional work attire in her closet, but as she didn’t know who was heading up the Department of Magical Law these days, she had no idea how to impress her superiors. Sighing, Pansy figured that she’d try for the professional middle of the road, and hope for the best.   
  
Stepping smartly through the Ministry Floo at 7:47, Pansy held her head high as she waited for one of the lifts. A neutral—if slightly bored—expression graced her features as she pretended not to hear the whispered gossip that forcibly reminded her of buzzing bees. Regardless of _why_ she was here or past scandals, she was still a pureblood and a Slytherin, and thus would conduct herself as a professional. She owed herself no less.   
  
But that thought—and all others—fled from her the instant she stepped into the office of the Head of the Department of Magical Law, and discovered who she would be working for during the next year. Her breath stopped and her heart began to pound so hard she was half-convinced it would burst through her demure cream blouse. She tried not to let the fine trembles she could feel become visible. After a deep breath, she finally managed to pull the withered scraps of her pride together and said, “Good morning, ma’am; Pansy Parkinson at your service.”   
  
Hermione peered at her over the tops of her spectacles, and smiled predatorily.   
  


***

  
  
Faced with the cold, predatory glint in Hermione’s eyes, Pansy realized that the seven intervening years between now and the last time she’d seen that expression simply hadn’t been long enough for her body to forget the sweet tortures it heralded. Pansy fought to keep a friendly, neutral expression on her face as her blood rushed beneath the surface of her skin, causing a warm tingling sensation that spread throughout her body. _I am here in a professional capacity, and I will act accordingly,_ she told herself sternly.   
  
When Hermione stepped closer, her smile widening, Pansy was grateful for the long sleeves of her navy over-robe—it prevented the minute, reflexive twitching of her fingers from being visible. Her neutral expression faltered slightly when her new supervisor reached out and grasped her chin with a deceptively gentle hand. “Yes; you’ll do,” Hermione murmured softly. Then, she released Pansy to cross her office and take a seat behind her desk. “Close the door, and have a seat,” she ordered, her tone suddenly business-like.   
  
Pansy complied.   
  
“Now, as I understand it, you have essentially been given to me for the next year, and your official position and duties are therefore mine to determine,” the gleam in her eyes shone, and Pansy felt her stomach flutter, “As such, I have registered you as my new personal assistant. It is a vague term, and its connotations vary from person-to-person, so I shall detail here and now what my expectations are.”   
  
Hermione leaned back, and surveyed her new underling with a coolly assessing eye before speaking again. “Your job is to be at my beck and call. I will tell you to do something, and you will do it as quickly, efficiently, and quietly as possible. Over time I expect you to not only fulfill my requirements, but to anticipate them. For the next year, you exist to make my life easier.” At that, the fluttering in Pansy’s stomach moved significantly lower. “I will expect you to balance my calendar and appointments. If I turn to you and want to know what events I’m scheduled to attend three months from now, you will know. You will handle my all my professional correspondence, shift through the influx of letters written to me by the public, and you will set aside my personal mail for my later perusal. For a start,” Hermione finished, a smirk lurking about the corners of her mouth.   
  
Pansy nodded to indicate her understanding. In truth, she understood only too well. _The next year is going to be torture,_ she thought to herself as her new boss showed her to her desk.   
  


***

  
  
Pansy found herself re-evaluating her initial assessment of her role as personal assistant eight weeks and three days into her sentence. It wasn’t torture—it was an unending stay in _hell_.   
  
Hermione’s every word, thought and gesture was a source of agony for Pansy. And, given the reality of being a personal assistant, that was an unthinkably vast number of tortures. Pansy’s day began at 5:30, when she dragged herself from bed and dressed in professional Mugglewear. Not because it was required, but simply because Pansy had found that there was little practicality in wearing robes when she was constantly running errands. After readying herself for another day under Dept. Head Granger, it was then Pansy’s duty to pick up her dry cleaning, and Floo over with sufficiently-prepared coffee for her employer.   
  
And then, about six weeks in, disaster struck, and Pansy was henceforth required to help her boss prepare in the mornings, too.   
  
Not-so-coincidentally, that was about the time Pansy had to start taking a Libido-Suppressing Potion just to make it through the day. _Had to_ , because with every brush of Pansy’s fingertips across the Law Witch’s skin while helping her dress caused a sharp jolt of arousal to sizzle across her nerves. _Had to_ , because after a half hour spent working Curl Defining Potion through the brunette’s locks and pinning them up, Pansy was wracked with fine tremors and struggling to control her breathing.   
  
As she closely followed on Dept. Head Granger’s heels through the Ministry, the blonde thought that the worst part about the entire arrangement was that there was no such thing as a day off. Pansy worked seven days a week, because a Dept. Head had weekend engagements, inter-departmental meetings and disputes, and other business functions to attend on weekends. And Pansy had proven herself invaluable in keeping Dept. Head Granger’s office running smoothly and efficiently. She was a victim of her own success.  
  
But when her boss reached out, cupping Pansy’s neck with one hand and stroking her thumb firmly just below Pansy’s jaw, murmuring “smudge,” Pansy decided that working weekends wasn’t the worst part after all. The awareness in Hermione’s eyes and the amusement curling her lips told her that working non-stop was the least of Pansy’s problems.   
  
_No . . . The worst part about all of this is that it’s going to get **worse** ,_ she thought to herself as she fumbled for the vial of Libido-Suppressing Potion that she’d stashed in her purse.   
  


***

  
  
Five months, one week, and four days—that’s how long Pansy had been working for Dept. Head Granger. Not once in all that time had she failed to admirably accomplish any task set for her. She had never been late, never had a critical lapse in memory, or committed some error that would cause Dept. Head Granger embarrassment or trouble. Pansy thought that—given how difficult it was to function under the onslaught of constant arousal and subtle sexual teasing—she had performed in a stellar fashion.   
  
That, unfortunately, only made her current failure to excel all the more humiliating.   
  
For starters, Pansy had overslept—and that it was a Saturday, and Dept. Head Granger only had a late business lunch on her schedule didn’t excuse it. Pansy rose from bed, only to experience a near-blackout. Shivering against the wall until her vision returned to normal, Pansy realized two things: one—she was really quite ill, and two—her boss was not going to be pleased. Stumbling and rushing to get ready, she also realized that she was much more concerned with not failing Hermione than she was with the black spots that kept flashing across her vision.   
  
When Pansy stepped through the Floo to Dept. Head Granger’s home nearly two hours later than she was expected, she was feeling distinctly ill with nerves. Among other things. At her employer’s expression of silent censure, Pansy opened her mouth to try and explain, but her vision greyed out as she lost consciousness instead.   
  
Upon regaining consciousness, Pansy panicked when she realized that she was in bed, and that it was nearly 3pm—Dept. Head Granger’s business lunch should be drawing to a close. Shivering, her skin clammy, Pansy tried to fight through her mental fog and get up. That was when several things became apparent, even through her disorientation.   
  
One—someone had undressed her, and wrapped her in a soft cotton bathrobe. Two—she was not in her bed at home. And three—the _tsk-tsk_ coming from the corner of the room when she tried to rise from the bed told Pansy that she wasn’t alone.   
  
_But who on Earth would be here for me when I’m sick?_ Pansy mused. “Mum?” she asked hopefully. The amused chuckle informed that it was not, in fact, her mother, even as the memory of her parents disowning her rose up to slay the possibility.   
  
And then Hermione’s hands were settling her back down in the bed, and stroking over her hair, and smoothing the warm covers over her. “Pansy . . . you’re no good to me if you’re out of commission. From this point on I expect—no, I _demand_ —that if you need something, you _will_ tell me.” Hermione’s voice was soft and low, but no less compelling for that.   
  
Even as she was sinking back down into fevered sleep, Pansy retained the wherewithal to respond with a muttered, “Yes, Ms. Granger,” and was rewarded with another stroke over her blonde hair.   
  


***

  
  
It took Pansy the rest of the weekend—spent in her boss’s guestroom—to recover well enough to go back to work in any sort of official capacity. And that was _with_ the aid of potions. The worst of it all, though, was that Dept. Head Granger had seen her like that.   
  
Between her humiliation at—literally—swooning in front of her boss, and the fact that her time off had inconvenienced Hermione, Pansy had shame to spare. It caused her to throw herself back into work with a vengeance, albeit a quiet vengeance. So quiet, in fact, that Dept. Head Granger called her on it.   
  
“Pansy!” Dept. Head Granger barked from her office.   
  
Pansy quickly trotted in, murmuring, “Yes, Ms. Granger?”   
  
“Sit down,” she ordered brusquely, snapping her fingers and pointing to the chair. When Pansy was seated, she continued. “I want to know what the problem is.”   
  
“Problem, Ms. Granger?” the blonde parroted, lifting her eyes from the floor.   
  
“Yes—problem. Because it _is_ a problem when you go so quiet that others forget you exist.” She leaned forward, planting her elbows on her desk. “Pansy, you’re not fighting back against the gossip and slander that’s being flung at you from all sides. You hardly speak. Hell, you won’t even look me in the eye,” Pansy flinched, “And I want to know why.”   
  
Pansy closed her eyes, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment; she took a deep breath before opening her eyes and giving her answer. “I’m . . . upset at falling short.”   
  
“Come again?” Dept. Head Granger asked flatly, unimpressed.   
  
“I . . . I failed you, and the thought of that,” Pansy paused, searching for the right word, “Distresses me.”   
  
“Your distress was wasted, then,” at the statement, shock and hope flashed across Pansy’s face. “If you’d fallen short, I would have been the first to tell you.” Her tone was business-like. Pansy nodded, and walked back to her desk with her head held high.   
  


***

  
  
Seven months, two weeks, and five days. That meant that there were roughly four months, two weeks, and two days left of her Ministry-imposed service. Pansy wasn’t sure she could survive that long.   
  
The situation with Hermione was getting worse; the teasing wasn’t subtle anymore, and those seemingly-innocent touches were happening more frequently, and having to help Hermione dress each morning was only making matters worse. Pansy had upped her dose of Libido-Suppressing Potion twice now—and her Healer was adamant that she couldn’t increase the dosage again. For any reason. Period.   
  
So when Hermione asked Pansy to Side-Along her to the next business meeting, the blonde felt a shiver of trepidation. A completely valid one, as it so happened—when Pansy held out her arm, Hermione took that as an invitation to completely invade her personal space, winding one arm around Pansy’s waist and the other around her neck. Pansy closed her eyes, and fought very, very hard to focus on getting them where they were going, and not on the fact that every inch of Hermione’s sexy, curvy 5’4” body was pressed hotly against her. She was therefore enormously relieved when she managed to get them there sans Splinching, and Pansy sighed in relief. She relinquished her grip on her boss, and waited for Dept. Head Granger to step back.   
  
But rather than do so, Hermione took a moment to tightly squeeze the back of Pansy’s neck before her hand slowly slid down the side of Pansy’s throat, and skated casually across her breast. With a small smirk, Hermione then calmly walked away to meet with the others.   
  
Pansy took a deep breath, and cast a _very_ discrete Drying Charm on her knickers before following her employer into the business meeting.   
  


***

  
  
After nine months around Dept. Head Granger, Pansy was quick to notice when something wasn’t right with her boss. And there was something most definitely “not right” now. Pansy quietly contacted Granger’s regular Healer, and booked her an appointment.   
  
She didn’t tell Dept. Head Granger.   
  
Pansy didn’t even tell her where it was she was Apparating her employer to, instead making a vague reference about an appointment. Pansy wasn’t surprised to see Hermione’s eyes harden in anger, but she lifted her chin and met that fiery gaze steadily. She wasn’t in the wrong—though it was obvious that her employer disagreed. Pansy, however, was more than willing to take whatever verbal abuse Hermione would dish out, just so long as she got her health straightened out with her Healer.   
  
Just because she was willing to accept it didn’t mean that she was particularly looking forward to it, however. So Pansy was considerably relieved when Healer Kendrix drew Hermione away before she could unleash the diatribe that was poised on the tip of her tongue.   
  
When Dept. Head Granger returned half an hour later, there was a weary sort of resignation lurking in her eyes. She gave Pansy an odd glance before she spoke. “How did you know, Pansy?” she asked quietly.   
  
Pansy’s voice was clear, and low. “Because it is my job to anticipate and meet your needs, Ms. Granger,” she replied, her gaze never wavering from Hermione’s face. The brunette nodded tiredly, before Healer Kendrix walked out to inform Pansy of the potion regimen Hermione was required to follow for the next two weeks.   
  
He knew as well as Pansy did that Granger wouldn’t follow it on her own.   
  


***

  
  
Now, despite the fact that Hermione was using sexual tension to torture Pansy until the Slytherin went completely barmy, Pansy exerted all her possible willpower towards not thinking about it. In truth, she couldn’t afford to; if she dwelled on it, it became a certainty that would act on it, and all Dept. Head Granger had to do was submit a single complaint to the MLE’s Parole Board, and Pansy would be screwed. Not in the way she’d like.   
  
Similarly, if Pansy tried to file a complaint, she wouldn’t be taken seriously, and would again end up screwed. How screwed, she didn’t know. It might be as simple as being assigned to another Ministry official, starting her sentence over again, remanding her to Azkaban for the remainder of her sentence, or even making her serve out a full term in the Wizarding prison. Her only option was to keep her head down, and endure it as best she could until it was over—although even that was contingent upon Dept. Head Granger writing a letter of service to the Parole Board.  
  
So, most of the time, Pansy tried to write off the teasing, innuendo, and mounting sexual frustration as being merely a part of her job. True, a job that required long hours seven days a week, but still—part of the job. And even if it consumed much of her life, brainpower, and time, it was still a _job_ , and she therefore tried to keep it separate from her personal (and social) life.   
  
Of course, that was impossible to achieve when Hermione kept stomping all over it.   
  


***

  
  
Ten months, three weeks, and six days. Pansy tried to console herself that it was almost over. In a little longer than a month, she would be free from Dept. Head Granger.   
  
On any other day, Pansy might hope to remain close to Hermione. Today, however, she very much wished for her sentence to have concluded, so that she might gain some much-desired distance from the brunette.   
  
Most of the others Pansy encountered at the Ministry were all too-pleased to treat her as if she didn’t exist, with the occasional acknowledging barb thrown in her general direction. So when the cute assistant down in the Ministry cafeteria began flirting with Pansy, the Slytherin was elated—and of course, flirted back. Their exchanges eventually led to a few after-work drink-and-chats, and Pansy hoped that she would find herself in the other witch’s bed soon.   
  
So naturally, when the plump blonde witch invited Pansy to spend the night with her as they were packing up to leave the Ministry on a Friday night, Pansy eagerly agreed. They chatted amiably as they made their way to the Atrium Floo grates. As Polly stepped forward, she took Pansy’s hand. Pansy was sure that this night was about to be the best she’d experienced in recent memory, because she wouldn’t spend it alone and frustrated.   
  
But just as Polly was about to lead Pansy through the Floo and into a perfectly lovely sleepless night, the demanding call of, “Pansy!” came echoing down the corridor. Turning, Pansy saw her employer come striding into the Atrium.   
  
Stepping away from Polly reluctantly, Pansy spoke carefully. “I was just on my way home; was there something I neglected to take care of before I left?” she asked, absolutely certain that there was nothing demanding her attention.   
  
Dept. Head Granger looked Pansy in the eye and destroyed her evening. “A function has just come up that requires my attendance, and your presence,” she said coolly.   
  
Pansy nodded, then turned to Polly; brushing her fingertips over the other woman’s hand, Pansy whispered, “I’m so sorry about this—hopefully I can make it up to you another time.” Polly nodded, and then vanished into emerald flames.   
  
As Pansy followed her employer towards the Apparition point, she was astounded when the Law Witch stopped and turned around to face her assistant before saying “I hope you haven’t made any plans with her.”   
  
Pansy’s fair eyebrows rose of their own volition. “Not as of yet, no; I was going to check the schedule first.”   
  
When Hermione responded with, “Well, don’t. Because for the next six weeks, you’re still mine,” Pansy didn’t know if her anger or her shock was stronger.   
  


***

  
  
It was finally— _finally!_ —Pansy’s last day of Ministry-mandated service. To tell the truth, she had mixed feelings about leaving the job. On the one hand, it was menial, afforded her zero respect, and the sexual tension had nearly caused her to lose her wits. Four days ago, as Pansy Apparated the two of them Side-Along back to her employer’s flat, Hermione had slid her hand into Pansy’s uncharacteristically-loose hair, and tugged just _so_. silent, the smirk told her that Hermione had heard it anyway.   
  
But on the other hand, Pansy took a certain amount of pride in her work; Dept. Head Granger’s office had never run so efficiently as it did now, and Granger often remarked that Pansy’s handling of the details was flawless, allowing her to dedicate more time to Wizarding Law. Not only that, but . . . Pansy was almost certain the touching, teasing and innuendo was as torturous for Hermione as it was for her. Almost.   
  
Taking a deep breath and smoothing a hand over the top of her hair to her bun, Pansy knocked on Dept. Head Granger’s door before letting herself in. For better or for worse, Pansy had served her sentence to the best of her considerable ability, and now her fate rested in her boss’s quill. With that thought uppermost in her mind, she crossed the office to sit in the guest chair, expecting Ms. Granger to either declare her work adequate or not, and to notify the Parole Board as such.   
  
What she most certainly did not expect was to find Hermione perched on the edge of her desk, her Wizarding robes draped casually across the elegant chair behind the desk. She swished a green quill in her right hand as if it were a wand, her gaze intense and unwaveringly focussed on her assistant. “So, it’s been a year already. Hmm,” she said casually— _too_ casually. Pansy’s heart started to beat a little faster. “You know, your fate is completely in my hands. You have to give me what I want, or I’ll refuse to write your letter of service to the Parole Board. At the very _least_ , you’ll have to serve out another year.”  
  
Pansy swallowed dryly before responding. “And what is it that you want, Ms. Granger?” _Please, oh please . . ._ Pansy thought, unsure of what, exactly, she was hoping for.   
  
Hermione laughed softly, before slipping from her desk to sit regally in her chair. But though she laughed, her gaze lost none of its intensity. “That’s easy, Pansy—I want a pet.” The blonde’s eyes slid closed, and she tried to breathe. “I want a confidante, a lover, a slave. More importantly, I want that from you.”   
  
Pansy’s cheeks were flushed, and she was certain that the pounding of her heart was audible, but she fought and was proud that her voice did not tremble. “I can understand desiring those things, but why me?” With that, Pansy raised her eyes from the floor, needing to see Hermione’s face as she answered.   
  
The brunette leaned forward, a predatory expression on her face. “Because, Pansy—none of my previous lovers have ever responded the way you do. And I want that—I want to keep it.” She leaned back against her chair. “I can make you; I merely need write to the Parole Board that I feel another year in my service is in order. While not a one hundred percent guarantee, it would be very, very close.”   
  
Pansy’s body felt like it was on fire as she heard the whispered question, “So what will it be? Will you come to me voluntarily—as I know you want to—or will I have to use force?”   
  
Pansy’s lips mouthed the word “voluntarily,” before she’d given it a moment’s thought. When she realized what her answer was, her eyes widened and her blush deepened, but she didn’t take it back. She wanted it much too much—and had for far too long.  
  
Hermione hummed, amused. “Well, let’s see just how willing you are, then, shall we? Stand up and strip,” she ordered flicking her wand at the door, casting spells to ensure they weren’t interrupted.   
  
Pansy stood, and toed off her kitten heels easily. Even without them, she easily stood half a head taller than Hermione. Her turquoise sweater-dress and nude tights came off a little less easily; standing there in just her bra and knickers, Pansy couldn’t help but compare herself to Hermione. Hermione—with her soft skin and lush curves who seemed to glow without magical help. Next to that, Pansy felt too slender; too pale and too tall and not nearly as curvaceous as a witch ought to be.   
  
So, with her eyes on the floor and her blush not merely one of arousal, Pansy reached behind her to unhook her bra, and placed it on top of her other clothes. She slid her knickers down, and stepped out of them. And then, gaze still fixed on the floor and trembling from a non-existent chill, she waited.   
  
She wasn’t kept waiting long: within a minute of her baring every inch of snow-pale skin, Hermione spoke. “Oh, Pansy. Come here,” it was spoken softly, but there was no gentleness, no tenderness in her tone, only smoke and sex and sin.   
  
Pansy walked around the desk, feeling as if her legs would fold under her. Stopping before Hermione, Pansy darted a glance at the other woman’s face. Hermione’s face was tipped up, her expression expectant. What, exactly, she expected, Pansy didn’t know until she tapped the outside of the blonde’s knee. Pansy knelt instinctually between Hermione’s feet at the gesture, resting on her heels. And then Hermione was sliding her hands possessively around Pansy’s jaw and neck, drawing her up on her knees and forwards for a kiss.   
  
When Hermione’s mouth touched hers, Pansy let out a whimper; Hermione seemed intent on devouring the Slytherin’s soul through her mouth. But unlike a Dementor, immense pleasure and intense heat was all Pansy could feel. Hermione’s teeth biting at her lips; the tongue flicking against her teeth and stroking over her palate; the cool leather of Hermione’s boots, pressed against the hot skin of Pansy’s hips and thighs; Hermione sucking her tongue. When the brunette ended the kiss, Pansy realized that she was wracked with tremors, and her hands had come to rest on Hermione’s knees in an attempt to support herself.   
  
And by the _Gods_ , she ached. Pansy could feel the heat gathered between her legs; if she became any wetter, she might start dripping.   
  
Before she had the opportunity to do more than draw a few steadying breaths, Hermione’s hands around her jaw were guiding her head down, forcing her face into the Gryffindor’s lap. Hermione drew her skirt up and hooked her legs over Pansy’s shoulders, making her desire unmistakably clear. Pansy let her hands rest on those silky thighs, and moved to do what she’d been thinking about for years now.   
  
Light, fluttering strokes of her tongue caused a soft exhalation. When Pansy’s strokes grew a little firmer, pushing past the outer lips and brushing past Hermione’s clit, the brunette’s hips jerked as she gasped. But when Pansy tipped her head and slid her tongue sideways into Hermione to immediately begin undulating, she was rewarded with a scream. Continuing, Hermione’s hips began rhythmically jerking, and her breathing grew laboured, but Pansy knew that it wasn’t going to be enough.   
  
Sliding her tongue free—and ignoring Hermione’s whine—Pansy moved to begin flicking with just the tip of her tongue over Hermione’s clit. Then, moving one hand away from supporting the brunette’s thighs, Pansy slid two long fingers deep inside Hermione, and began rubbing against that spot that she knew always made _her_ see stars. Sure enough, Hermione’s hips lifted, her legs locked, and her breathing grew positively ragged as Pansy worked her closer to orgasm. The tipping point came when Pansy set her teeth on Hermione’s clit, and sucked _hard_.   
  
Pansy waited for the legs on her shoulders to drop before sitting back on her heels and trying to lick her face and fingers clean of the other woman’s juices. She tried to ignore the feeling of her own wetness seeping down her legs.   
  
She snapped to attention when Hermione suddenly barked out, “Pansy—on my lap, now.” Pansy rose to her feet—a little unsteadily—and then paused, unsure of how she was meant to be on Hermione’s lap. Sitting across her thighs, over her knee?   
  
Hermione must have understood the confusion, for she simply pulled Pansy down so that the blonde straddled her lap. Her hand on the back of the blonde’s neck guided her head down to Hermione’s shoulder, before sliding down to wrap around the slender waist. “You may make any noise you need,” Hermione murmured softly.   
  
Pansy only had a moment to ponder what she might have meant by that, before she let out a sharp cry as she was invaded by two of Hermione’s fingers. Pansy clutched desperately at Hermione’s shoulders as the cruel, perfect fingers she remembered from so long ago were roughly thrust inside her, over and again, pushing and digging and twisting, rubbing and hitting and shoving further and harder and faster. Pansy let out needy, mewling cries as Hermione continued without mercy—it tingled, and it hurt, oh it burned, but it was such a perfect pain that it only felt so, so unbelievably good.  
  
And suddenly Hermione was whispering “Come for me, flower,” into blonde hair as her thumbnail scraped over Pansy’s clit, and Pansy was lost. She was shaking and crying and trying to ride the wave of pleasure that swept through her without being drowned by it. And as she drifted back down, still wrapped around Hermione, Pansy finally heard the words that the brunette had been speaking while she was still insensate.   
  
“That’s it, little flower… you’re so pretty, and so perfect. So utterly _mine_.”   
  
  
  
  



End file.
